Clearing the Air
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Paper Moon tag story: An unexpected hunt leads to some unexpected honesty.


**Clearing the Air**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

So he'd admitted it. Told Sam what he wanted to hear: that Dean wasn't okay, that maybe he wasn't ready to hunt. That being a demon had left a mark, no matter how much Dean wanted to pretend it hadn't.

And then he'd turned on the radio.

Not that that had ever stopped his brother. Sam was perfectly capable of blowing past any blockades Dean put in front of him, whether it was Metallica at full blast or icy silence. But Sammy hadn't said a word, just sat there looking sad and tired, good arm cradling his sling.

What a pair they made. Maybe Dean's admission wasn't even that big a deal because neither of them were really hunt-worthy. Sam still hadn't told him every—

"… _are calling the 'Death House.' Cascade Police and Fire & Rescue say they've found no indication of what killed the seven people, but for now the house is sealed off while the investigation continues. Next, in weather—"_

Dean snapped the radio off and turned to meet Sam's intent gaze.

His brother took a breath. "We are not ready for another hunt."

"Right," Dean agreed. "You've got that bum wing."

"You're still, you know, getting used to being human again." Sam waved a hand to encompass what Dean assumed was him.

"There are other hunters out there," Dean pointed out.

"It's not like we have to take every call."

"We don't even know if it _is_ a call."

There was a pause.

"You need directions to Cascade?" Sam asked, resigned.

"Naw, it's north of Boise. I got it." Dean took the next opportunity to turn south.

Sam was already looking up more information on his phone. "It's…'bout 120 miles from here. We should stop somewhere for the night, start fresh in the morning."

"Your arm gonna feel 'fresh' in the morning?" Dean asked mildly.

"You gonna be able to sleep without nightmares?" Sam volleyed back.

Dean snorted. "Oh, yeah. We are in _awesome_ shape."

Maybe ten seconds went by before Sam murmured, "You're _here_."

Dean had nothing to say to that. And soon after, he turned the radio back on and found the local rock station.

00000

They arrived in Cascade, Idaho, close to ten in the morning, perfect time to canvas witnesses, except there were none. The "Death House" had killed everyone in it each time it struck: the bachelor, the older couple, and the four friends. Sam had hacked into police records the night before while his brother snored, so they already knew what little the police did. There were no signs of violence on the bodies, no conclusive evidence of what killed them, no obvious environmental dangers, no witnesses outside the house to anything weird: all the hallmarks of their kind of case.

So they went straight to the house.

It was the one McMansion on a street of otherwise modest middle-class homes. They idled two lots down, looking it over: the caution tape over the gate and front door, the litter left behind by onlookers and probably press. But no signs of life.

Dean leaned forward to peer up at the building, the pitched roof, the dormer windows. "Well, it's ugly."

Sam frowned at him. "No, it's not."

"Sure it is. Sticks out like a sore thumb—who needs a house that big?"

"Dude. We live in a bunker with, like, twenty bedrooms."

Dean plopped back against the seat. "Yeah, and did we ask for that? No."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "So you _didn't_ go get new sheets and stuff for each room?"

Dean's mouth opened, shut, and he gave Sam a half-sheepish, half-annoyed look.

Sam shook his head and climbed out of the car to hide his twitching mouth. "It's obviously pretty new," he called back over his shoulder. "Maybe construction woke something up."

They met at the trunk. "Or a poltergeist could've hitched a ride. You got the pouches?" Dean checked Sam's Taurus before handing it to him.

"Yup," Sam said. They were tucked into his sling for fast access, along with his flask of holy water and the demon knife, just in case.

Dean claimed a shotgun for himself; Sam knew the Colt would already be on him. His brother stuffed a few more supplies into a duffel: salt, an iron bar, a box of ammo, then slammed the trunk shut. "You ready?"

His arm was aching from the beating those two werewolves had laid on them the day before, and Dean looked like he could sleep for another week. Sam nodded.

They strode up to the house, falling into the same rhythm after about two steps. Sam felt the grateful lump in his throat that seemed to have taken residence there since Dean's eyes had cleared from black to hazel. To say he'd missed this would have been to say a drowning man missed air.

They hopped over the taped low gate, something to be said for looking like they had every right to be there, but also for not making their entry obvious. Police were probably still doing occasional drive-bys to keep looky-loos away. At the doorway, Sam drew himself up to his full height to shield Dean's lock-picking and ribbon-cutting. A quick glance around—not so much as a fluttering curtain or curious gardener in sight, amazingly—and they slipped into the house.

Dean already had the EMF detector out when Sam eased the door shut behind them. It was almost silent, just a trickle of noise and red light the electronics in the house could account for. Sam turned away and did a visual sweep of the house.

It looked…totally normal. Big, open foyer with a staircase ahead to the second floor. A living room and dining room stretched along the right, mud room and office to the left, and beside the staircase was a short hallway probably leading back to the kitchen. The house was simply but tastefully furnished, with exotic art and statues as accent pieces, and nothing seemed out of place. There weren't even evidence markers, which jived with the reports of no evidence found of anything suspicious. Just a bunch of dead people.

Dean took a deep breath as he slid the detector into his pocket. "No sulfur or ozone. Temp's normal. You feel anything?"

A few years ago, Sam would've taken exception to the question as an oblique reference to his "shining," but they were long past that. Dean was asking as a partner, not a steward. But the hair on the back of his neck wasn't even prickling, and Sam shook his head. "No. You?"

Dean's eyes were narrowed, which could have been over everything from a rug he didn't like to a feeling of impending death. "Maybe…something…"

"Wow," Sam deadpanned. "Specific."

Dean tossed him a glower, but his posture remained alert. And Sam realized with a jolt that he wasn't sure if this was Dean's hunter instincts or the Mark's influence. Normally he knew every shade of Dean's expressions and body language, but the Mark, his recent _demonhood_ , had shifted everything.

"So…" Sam began, about to suggest they try the upstairs first, then realized how it would sound if Dean didn't think he trusted him out of sight. "Split up?" he offered instead. "You go high, I go low?"

"You say that to all the girls?" Dean muttered, but the look he gave Sam said he knew what his brother was doing. He shifted his shotgun to the hand the detector had been in. "You know, splitting up doesn't usually work out so great for us."

He wasn't wrong. But this felt like an important stand to take. Sam tucked his gun into his jacket pocket and dug out his phone instead. "We stay on the phone. Keep the line open."

He could sense Dean's hesitation, and knew this time it was about trusting himself more than fearing something in the house. But Dean finally nodded, getting out his own phone. "Okay. But keep talking, even if you don't see anything, okay? And I'm taking the basement."

"Yeah, all right." Sam hit his brother's number with his thumb, waited for Dean to open the line. Then he nodded at the staircase and Dean squared his shoulders and headed toward the back of the house.

" _Kitchen's not bad,"_ his brother soon reported.

Sam smiled halfway up the stairs. "As big as the bunker's?"

Dean snorted. _"Yeah, right. But—oh, man!_ " Even as Sam tensed, his brother crowed, _"They've got a KitchenAid mixer, dude. Hey, you think anyone would notice if I boosted it?"_

Sam rolled his eyes, but that stupid lump in his throat was back. "It is your birthday in a coupla months." He smiled to himself at Dean's gleeful response.

The landing at the top of the stairs led off into three short hallways, two ending in doors, the third to a cluster of three doors. All of them stood open, sunlight streaming in through windows of normal still-life bedrooms. One was a nursery, Sam winced to see: maybe the couple's dashed dream. And everywhere a hush, like the house was holding its breath, waiting for…something. New life? Or whatever it was that had brushed against Dean's nerves?

 _"Sam?"_

"Uh, yeah, sorry, just looking around. Four bedrooms, one bath, no cold spots or monsters."

 _"Found the basement—I'm gonna check it out."_

"Be careful," Sam said automatically, and figured the huff he got in return was only fair.

Back on the landing, he looked up and down the hallway. Then his eyes fell on the trap door in the ceiling.

"I'll check out the attic."

 _"Watch out for raccoons."_

That pulled him up short. "What?"

 _"Dude, have you not seen those videos of raccoons crashing through ceilings?"_ There was a distant echo of Dean's boots on wood: the staircase down to the basement.

Sam could reach the cord for the door without even stretching too high. He tugged it down without effort, unfolding the ladder. "Seriously? That's what you spend your time looking at online?"

" _Sometimes?"_ Dean sounded defensive. _"You don't look at stuff like that online?"_

Sam shook his head. "Gotta put the phone down for a second to climb."

" _Go for it."_

He tucked the phone into his sling with the pouches—he was just waiting for Dean to make a joke about it being his purse—and climbed up the ladder one-handed. At the top, he was pleasantly surprised to find the light from the two windows was enough to see by. He stepped off the ladder and looked around as he pulled the phone out again. "No raccoons."

Dean didn't answer.

Sam's eyes went to his phone, as if that would let him see where his brother was. "Dean?"

" _Yeah, I'm here."_

He sounded okay, just…distracted. Sam's eyes narrowed even as his heart slowed a little. "What?"

" _Just…I don't know, something. Like it's hiding, watching. Waiting."_

"You thinking poltergeist?"

" _Maybe."_ But Dean sounded doubtful. They'd faced enough 'geists and _domovoi_ and other house demons to have a sense for them, and this wasn't pinging Sam's radar that way, either.

He remembered the hush downstairs, and took another look around the attic. Dust danced in the hazy light around the dim shapes of lots of boxes, a few chairs, and a dresser. Not exactly a terrifying scene. But, yeah… As he stretched his senses, he could feel it, the hovering, the static of _something._

Sam chewed his lip a moment, switching out gun for phone even as he made sure to keep the line open. He thought for another moment, then whispered a few words of Latin.

A warm breeze soughed past Sam. Something flickered in the corner of his vision, and he glanced down, through the open attic door.

There was a shimmer. A dog-like face. A tail folded over like a scorpion. An insubstantial wing—

Dread swept over Sam along with another wave of heat. "Close the door!" he yelled toward the phone, dropping his gun as he lunged to do the same. "Seal it up!"

And without waiting for his brother's response, he hauled the stairs up and slammed the door down, trapping himself in the attic.

00000

Dean didn't waste time on questions; they both knew better. Dimly, he heard the clatter of Sam battening down the hatches even as Dean flew up the stairs and reached for the open door.

Heat flowed in from the kitchen outside, a lot warmer than it had been before. And there was something, a flutter of movement, a burning eye turning toward him…

He slammed the door. The hot wind cut off, leaving behind a hint of desert smells and something deeper, rotten and horrible. Dean urgently scanned the edges of the door, but no light shone through, and there was a rubber seal at the bottom. He sagged in place: thank God for insulation-happy homeowners.

" _Dean!"_ he heard then, tinny and muffled. _"Dean, answer me!"_

He yanked out the phone he didn't even remember sticking into his pocket. "Yeah, I'm here, I'm good. Shut the door—nothing's gettin' in. You okay?"

A long breath from Sam as both their adrenalin levels settled just from being in touch again. _"Yeah."_

"So you wanna tell me now why I locked myself in a room with no exit?" Dean asked calmly, turning again to eye the downstairs. There were several small windows near the basement ceiling, but there was no way he was getting more than a leg through any of them.

" _Did you feel it? Hot, bad breath from Hell?"_

Dean glanced toward the door again, reaching out a hand to feel the wood, the doorknob. Nothing felt hot. But… "Yeah, maybe. Near the top, like…the opposite of a cold spot. I thought it was the furnace kicking in or something."

Something creaked from Sam's end of the line, like he was sinking down on a seat. _"I saw it. Or…enough of it. Dean, it's a pazuzu."_

Dean paused on the third step down. "You mean like in _The Exorcist_?"

" _Yeah, except they don't really possess people. They're Babylonian, kinda like chimeras—part eagle, lion, scorpion. Maybe dog? Oh, and it's got wings."_

"Of course it does," Dean sighed, continuing down the stairs. "So, I'm guessing it's not just the Babylonian version of the Green Man."

Sam huffed a laugh, probably more at Dean admitting he knew his pagan lore, if not ancient Babylonian. They both knew he left that stuff to his encyclopedic little brother. _"Not exactly. Lore says it carries the plague with it on a withering, hot breeze, a 'killing wind.' Anyone it reaches, dies."_

Dean lurched to a stop, quickly looking at his hands, patting down his important parts. "I felt it for a second, man," he said urgently. "Before I got the door shut."

" _No, no, it was just getting started. We're good. But you step into the kitchen now, and you're dead before you hit the floor."_

"Ergo, no signs of struggle. Great." Dean looked around the dim room again. "Any idea what made Pez show up now?"

" _Uh, yeah."_ Sam sounded suddenly guilty, which brought Dean's attention full back to the phone. _"I don't know what the other people did—maybe they moved something or said just the right thing, or were even just here long enough for it to show."_

Dean, head tilted, said guardedly, "But we didn't do any of that, so…"

Sam sighed. _"I said a little purification chant."_

Dean nodded. Ah.

" _I didn't know it would make anything show—I just figured it wouldn't hurt, maybe it would get rid of whatever it was we were sensing. I'm sorry."_

Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not mad, dude. I mean, who expects a Babylonian candy dispenser in the middle of Idaho, right?"

" _Yeah,"_ Sam said, still obviously not forgiving himself.

"Okay." Dean reached up to run a hand along the unfortunately solid mortar under one of the windows. "So how do we kill it?"

" _Uh…mirrors, I think? I'll look it up. But that's not the problem, man."_

Dean examined the rake and broom propped against the wall. Both would work as a weapon in a pinch. "Okay, I'll bite—what's the problem?"

" _To kill the pazuzu, we have to get to it. And to get to it—"_

Dean grimaced. "—we gotta go through the Smilex first."

A beat. _"The what?"_

"Dude, Batman? Joker's killer gas?" At Sam's continued silence, Dean shook his head. Barbarian. "Never mind." He glanced around the room once more, hoping he'd somehow managed to miss a door. "You're in the attic, right?"

 _"Yeah."_

"Can you get out any of the windows?"

 _"Uh, sure. It's the pitched roof and the two stories down I'm worried about."_

Great. Just frickin' great. "So you're sayin' we're both trapped in a house filled with poison gas."

 _"We could call for help."_

"You wanna take a chance on it offing more people? Do we even know if its stink only kills you if you breathe it in, or if it just has to touch you? Gas masks might be useless against Pez, right?"

 _"Pazuzu,"_ Sam said quietly.

He was taking that as a, _No, Dean, we don't know_. Dean kicked an empty gas can aside and sank down on the bottom step. "Awesome."

 _"Pretty much."_

They sat in silence a minute. Thank God they always charged their phones before a hunt; Dean's was still at ninety-one percent and had good reception, even there in the basement. With Sam at the other end of the line, it could've been worse.

Sam finally spoke up. _"I found a symbol we can put on the doors to make sure it stays out."_

Dean glanced up the stairs disinterestedly. "I'm good."

 _"Dean…I'm sorry."_

Dean snorted. "Pretty sure you're not the one stinkin' up the place, Sam. I was the one who couldn't stay out of the hunt." He absently rubbed at the raised Mark under his shirt, but he wasn't fooling himself that that was why he hadn't been able to take a longer break. "And if your big brain hadn't recognized Puzzle-Zoo, we'd be victims eight and nine by now."

Sam didn't answer. There were soft scraping sounds as he was doubtless digging around in the attic for something, anything they could use, just as Dean had.

Dean drew a hand down his face, tired to the core. "I could try going out there. I always could hold my breath longer than you."

 _"Dude!—"_

"Hey, if it kills me, you know I'm just gonna come back again soul-impaired."

 _"We're not doing that again."_ Sam sounded…anguished.

Remorse twisted Dean's gut. "You use some chains this time, gag me—"

 _"Don't, all right? Just…don't."_ And, crap, Sam sounded near _tears._

"Okay," Dean said contritely. "Okay, Sammy." He cleared his throat, looking up at the ceiling, at the layers of wood and poison and pain that separated him from the one person he couldn't do without. "So," he said false enthusiasm. "You said you wanted to talk."

Sam's laugh was unsteady; Dean took pride in having teased it out of his little brother despite himself. They were never at rock bottom if he could still make Sam laugh.

"You know," Dean said, back to serious. "I know what I said to you when I was, you know, black-eyed boy. But what happened with you and Lester, that really wasn't exactly full-on dark-side, dude."

 _"Dean, he sold his soul because of me."_

Yeah, he kinda figured Sam wasn't over that, even if they'd had a variation of this conversation before. "No," Dean said patiently, "you just told him how to do it. Lester's the idiot who went for the deal. And I'm the guy who killed him. This isn't on you."

 _"Does it matter? If it weren't for me, he'd still be sitting in a bar, crying into his beer."_ And Sam just sounded so…weary. Not for the first time, Dean was struck by the weight of what his brother had gone through those last weeks.

"Sam, listen to me." He shifted on the step. "I killed Lester."

 _"You were a—"_

"No, _listen_ to me. I killed _Lester_. Not his two-timing wife."

Even all emo, Sam wasn't slow on the uptake. _"So…his deal didn't go through?"_

"Nope," Dean said. "I mean, don't get me wrong, son of a bitch like that, he probably ended up boarding with Crowley anyway. But not because of anything you did."

He listened to Sam breathe. Dean would never, ever admit how reassuring he found that sound.

"'Most you and I did was send him there early. But Mr. 'Men Aren't Built for Monogamy'? He kinda had it coming."

 _"He was a person—"_

"He was a douche who put a hit out on his wife because she's the one who got caught." Dean took a breath. "I'm not saying he deserved it, or that it doesn't bother me. I'm just sayin'…I can forgive this one. Can you?"

What he really meant was he could forgive Sam— _done_ —but he wasn't sure Sam could forgive _him_. But whatever spin Sam had to put on it to be able to sleep at the end of the day was fine with Dean.

"So unless there's something else I don't know about—and, dude, carving up demons for info doesn't count, that's just Tuesday—can we just…you know, stop with the cutting and the Alanis Morissette, and move on?"

Sam remained silent, but he was still breathing, if a little faster.

Dean wished he could see his face, but then, maybe this was easier. Maybe this was even the only way they could have this conversation.

And, really, he didn't need to see Sam's face to know what he was feeling.

"Sammy," he just said quietly, and that was enough.

00000

Sam wiped at his watery eyes. He was alone in the room; who was there to see what Dean's words meant to him?

And then Dean said _"Sammy"_ as gently as if he knew, and it was hard to breathe through the vast consolation of having his brother back, again. The difference between the love in that word and the spite the demon had slung at him back in the dungeon… Even after Dean was cured and apologized, some part of Sam had wondered if some part of Dean hadn't meant those accusations.

He really was an idiot sometimes.

" _Sam?"_ Sharper now.

Sam nodded, sucking in a breath. "Yeah. I hear you."

There was a long, comfortable pause. He heard Dean moving around, doubtless testing weapons, walls. Dean's claustrophobia hadn't seemed to have kicked in—yet—but he'd never done well being contained, helpless. Especially when he feared for Sam. And the Mark doubtless would be ramping up that unease.

Sam sucked in air. "So what about you?"

The sounds of movement stilled. _"What?"_

"While you were a demon. You killed Lester—you didn't kill anybody else, right?" He deliberately went for a lighter tone, not sure Dean would answer any other way.

" _Do a coupla homicidal demons and angels count?"_

"Do they ever?" They had once, when the Winchesters still worried about saving hosts. But demons had grown more ruthless since Azazel's death scuttled their plans, and angelic hosts were often misused. The humans inside were usually dead, or verging on insane. Sam had long made peace with freeing them in death.

" _I already told you, no._ " Dean _had_ already told him as much, but that hadn't seemed to stop the self-blame; they were Winchesters, after all. _"I know, I know, I sucked as a demon, but…Sam, I_ hunted _you."_

And there was the crux. Dean could rationalize, or at least lock away the rest, but harming his brother was the ultimate sin.

Sam almost smiled, because ironically, this was the easiest for him to absolve. "But you didn't kill me, and let's face it, man, you could've. I'm not saying you were Gandhi, okay? But you left me a _note_ before you took off to go be a demon. That was the real you in there."

" _That's…"_ A beat. _"Hey, there's a first aid kit down here. Activated charcoal. I bet I can make a gas mask."_

Sam shifted where he sat and went with the deflection, knowing Dean would chew on his words later. "We don't know that—"

" _Dude, we don't know that it won't. And we can't just sit around here waiting for Putz to get tired before we croak."_

Sam pushed to his feet and wove his way around boxes back to the window. The roof dropped steeply under the ledge, and he couldn't see straight down over the edge. But he was pretty sure he'd seen a deck on the right side of the house, off the kitchen, and it probably didn't extend all the way to the left. There could still be a patio, but odds were it was grass or bushes. Cushions.

" _I just need—"_

"I've got another idea." Sam started unbuckling his sling.

" _What?"_ Dean sounded wary.

"The window."

" _Whoa, wait. You're three stories up, right? You think breaking your neck's better than the gas?"_

"If I go down off the roof feet first, I can hang and drop. Then it's just a one-story or so fall on grass." There were some definite advantages to his height. He had the sling off and cautiously bent his arm back and forth. It felt weak and twinged with pain, but Sam knew his body; it would hold. The doctor had said he could start using it full-range in a few more days, anyway.

" _None of the windows down here look out back—you sure it's grass?"_

Sam hesitated. "Pretty sure."

" _And what about your gimp arm, huh? You gonna hang one-handed?"_

"The arm's okay, Dean—it's been five weeks." He finished bundling his stuff back into the sling and tying it with the strap.

" _We don't even know how to kill this son of a bitch."_

They had gas masks in the car, but Sam knew that wasn't what Dean meant. "I'll figure it out."

" _No. I can rig up a gas mask, and we don't even know Pez is still out there. It's not worth it, Sam—you're not doin' this."_

Sam wrestled the window open, relieved to smell fresh air. Leaning out as far as he dared, he saw only green below. He tossed out the sling-wrapped bundle, and heard a soft thud. "I _can_ do this. Trust me, man."

There was a long pause. Then, _"You didn't need the blood, Sam."_

Sam blinked. "What?"

" _For the cure. You didn't have to bring in blessed blood—you coulda used your own. You think I don't know why you didn't?"_

Sam closed his eyes. He remembered that, first planning to go to confession as he had before with Crowley, then deciding he couldn't take the chance, that maybe he was so tainted that no absolution, no prayer would be enough.

" _You always had enough faith for both of us,"_ Dean continued softly.

In God, yes, even now. In a future, most of the time. In Dean, always, even when he'd wanted to hate him. But in himself…

" _So, yeah. I trust you."_

It took a minute. But he finally got the shakes under control and said in a small voice, "I'll see you in a few minutes, Dean." And then he stuck the phone into his pocket, set his jaw, and climbed out the window.

00000

It was a very long few minutes.

Sam didn't hang up on him, which was both good and bad. It meant Dean heard the scrapes and slide and then a thump and a grunt, mind graphically filling in the visuals. But it also meant he heard the sound of movement after, Sam panting and the creak of Baby's trunk.

Dean chewed his lip to keep from yelling at Sam to tell him what was going on.

He did trust his brother; he did. Not always to look after himself as Dean would have done. But to have his back? Forever and always.

More scuffs and clinks of metal. Duffel in hand, Dean climbed the basement steps silently, all senses turned toward the phone. At the top, he pressed against the basement door, listening for the stereo sounds of Sam on the phone and in the house.

Nothing besides quiet anonymous noises for long seconds. And then a sound like a combination lion's roar and a bird's shrill scream.

His teeth hurt from being clenched so hard.

The door swung open.

Before Dean could even catch himself, Sam was grabbing him, pulling something over his head and slapping something against his chest. Gas mask. And, Dean looked down…some kinda symbol on a piece of paper now taped to him. Dean blinked at Sam in confusion, then past him. "What—?"

He couldn't see Sam's grin, but he could hear it, even muffled through the gas mask. "It's dead." He held up the shield Dean had fashioned for their one and only Gorgon hunt. "Mirror did the trick." He was wearing the symbol, too, drawn in masking tape on his t-shirt.

The house was no hotter than normal, Dean abruptly realized. He reached up to tap his mask. "We still need this?"

"Probably not," Sam answered, hand on his arm until they were both heading toward the front door, then just close enough to bump shoulders. "I just didn't want to take a chance."

Seconds later they were out the door but waited until they were well clear of the porch before Sam pulled his mask off and Dean followed suit. They both breathed deep, turning first to stare at the house, then at each other.

"You know," Sam continued with a small smile, "with you trusting me and all."

Dean almost shoved him in his bad shoulder, quickly course-correcting to shove the left one. It'd been a long time since he'd seen his brother grin without looking like it hurt. He grabbed the shoulder he'd poked and held on while he scanned Sam up and down. "You okay? You hit grass?"

"Just bruises. Dad didn't teach us how to fall for nothin'," Sam soothed, but his grin couldn't seem to go away.

Dean sobered. "Thanks."

Sam snorted. "I was the only one who could get out."

Dean shook his head. "I don't mean—Yeah, okay, I mean that, too, but, you know. Not just that."

Sam's smile softened.

"And…I'm sorry. Really." And not just for what Sam had had to do today, but for what he'd had to do the week before, and what Dean had put him through a few months before that.

The smile didn't dim. But it wasn't just on Sam's lips, or even in his eyes, but in how his face smoothed out, how his shoulders were square. The man he was when he didn't have the weight of the world on him. The guy Dean sometimes leaned on when he couldn't stand anymore, and whom he sometimes propped up with all he had.

What a pair they made.

They'd have to come back with the gas masks, find out what Pez-ugly had attached itself to in the house—Dean would put money on it being one of those statues in the living room—and make sure the place was safe. And, of course, grab the KitchenAid mixer.

But for now, all Dean wanted was to have some pie with his brother.

Sam, in synch with him as always, tilted his head. "So…lunch first?"

"Lunch first," Dean agreed, shoving the gas mask at Sam to put away.

"Then maybe we should talk about that time off."

"We'll see, Sammy." Dean grinned as he got into the car. "We'll see."

 **The End**


End file.
